Kur of Gor (12 page)

It would be no different with this male, he with whom she shared this inexplicable, eccentric, bizarre confinement.

Her sex, and her beauty, had always proved reliable instruments, and weapons.

They would so now.

The male in the container was a man, and he would be no different from the others.

She did not understand, of course, that he, despite his familiarity, as she had discovered, with her language, was unlike the men with whom she had hitherto been acquainted.

He was of the Warriors; he knew battle; he knew the sea; he knew the great bow, and the blade.

Too, she was quite unfamiliar with Gorean males, and how they viewed women, in particular those with whom they do not share Home Stones.

Their acculturation had not been that of Earth, but one quite different, one far more consistent and healthy, one far more natural.

Nothing had prepared her, you see, for the men of Gor.

And this large, strong man was no longer of Earth. He was now of Gor.

How could it even occur to her that Gorean men would look upon such as she and see her not in terms of her breeding, education, position, and background but in terms of the slave tunic and chain, in terms of the whip and collar?

Did she not know that such as she were put barefoot and naked on the sawdust of the slave block and routinely auctioned to the highest bidder?

Comfortable with her assumed power, and confident that she would be protected by the male in the container, she cast a glance of lofty disdain at the blonde. Did the blonde not even know enough to cover herself, as did the brunette, at least to the extent possible?

Many facial expressions and bodily words, so to speak, in the human species are presumably genetically coded, at least with respect to their templates, as they are amongst other Earth primates, for they seem, for the most part, to be easily interpreted amongst diverse linguistic and cultural groups, for example, expressions of contentment, of jealousy, of pride, of pleasure, of satisfaction, of suspicion, of anger, and so on. In any event, whether in virtue of these species characteristics, or in virtue of her experiences in her Steel World, the blonde took instant umbrage at the brunette's expression, and bared her canines and hissed viciously at the brunette, who drew back, frightened.

The male put out his hand and pressed the blonde back who, hands raised, and fingers crooked, was clearly on the verge of attacking the brunette.

The male apparently made soothing sounds to the blonde, as she had no language, who then crouched down beside him, docilely, looking up at him.

He shook her head, good-naturedly, and she put her head gently against him. She had done this often with her master.

Then, looking at him, timidly, she licked his knee.

The brunette looked upon this display of tenderness with severe disapproval, but the male did not deter or punish the little animal.

Rather he smiled at the brunette, who gasped in indignation. Apparently the brute had no intention of prohibiting the blonde from engaging in such disgusting exhibitions of ingratiation.

What sort of man could he be?

Was he even a man, as she had known men?

Perhaps he was something far more masculine, more virile and dangerous, more dominant?

What then might be the relation of such a man to a woman?

Perhaps he was the sort of man who would simply master a woman?

She thought of herself as mastered, and shuddered, with pleasure.

Then she cast such thoughts from herself, indignantly.

Surely she was not such that she could be mastered! She was educated, and civilized, and such!

But what if it was done to her?

Her dreams had left her in no doubt that it could be done to her, and with perfection.

Surely she would fear the whip.

She would be choiceless.

Never before had she encountered such a man.

Could she be longing for a master?

Was that what it was to be a woman, to be a slave?

Then she, a civilized beauty of station, position, and class, the young, spoiled, pampered, proud, self-righteous scion of a pathological acculturation, put aside such thoughts as offensive and absurd, and considered her present predicament and vulnerability.

She was imprisoned, helplessly, perfectly, why or how she had no idea. She had no evidence, even, of the number or nature of her captors, or owners.

She looked at the heavy, glassine walls, closely curving about her, within whose compass she and the others were confined.

She was a member of a miniscule social group, in a tiny, inescapable environment, subject to a technological ecology she was incapable of altering. What might be the social relations in such a world, in such a small, stout, encircling, transparent world?

And what might be the consequences to herself of these social relations?

She became extremely frightened. What if she were marginalized, or neglected? What if the little animal should become, so to speak, his favorite? How would this affect her plans, her role, in this tiny space? There was a single male, and two females.

Must she not somehow compete for his favor?

At this point, she seemed to speak to him, but in response she received only his smile, which disconcerted her.

She then drew back, miserably, against the wall of the thick, glassine barrier, and, for some time, watched the little blonde, with her soft, pink tongue, licking at the male's knee.

She became more and more agitated.

She seems then to have said something to Tarl Cabot, which displeased him, for he seems to have spoken back to her, sharply.

She then, upset, drew back, again.

Perhaps no man had spoken to her in that fashion before.

She began to cry.

He paid her no attention.

Later, she seems to have said something to him again, but he only shrugged, noncommittally.

She tried to plead with him, it seemed, but he looked away.

Tears stained her cheeks.

Had she been found displeasing?

Never had that happened before.

Clearly then she understood, perhaps as never before, save in her dreams, her femaleness in relation to a male's maleness, that she was a female, and that she, if she would please, or even survive, had best relate to the male as a female.

She was startled.

He was dominant.

Never before had she sensed a male dominant over her, but she sensed it now.

He controlled the container, or could, if he wished.

It must have been clear to her then that she might be isolated, excluded, that her standing in this tiny world might be in jeopardy.

What if she were not fed?

Then, after a time, the brunette, covering her breasts, as she could, with one arm, put out her hand and took one of the hands of Tarl Cabot.

Looking at him, she drew it timidly to her mouth, and, putting her head down, began to lick at its palm, perhaps to obtain any residue of the gelatinous provender which it had hitherto held.

Then she looked up at him, frightened, and then, again, submissively, put her head down and licked his palm.

Could she at one time have even conceived of herself doing this?

Could it be she, behaving so?

Oddly, she felt sexually enflamed.

She was trying to please a male.

How would the males she had hitherto known react to this, those she had treated with such coolness, with such contempt and condescension, whom she had routinely disdained, belittled, and spurned, whom she had treated as so much beneath her, to whom she had postured herself as their lofty, haughty superior, seeing her naked, fearful, degraded, attempting to please a male? Would they not have cried out with pleasure, and perhaps removed their belts, that they might have served as whips?

Tarl Cabot did not withdraw his hand, but he looked at her, closely. Slaves sometimes try to call themselves so to the attention of their master. It was a slave's gesture, a slave's act. Cabot wondered if she knew what she was doing. It is erotic, of course, to feel that soft tongue in the palm of one's hand. It, too, this gesture or act, is often used not simply as a device of placation, but as a way of petitioning to be caressed.

The blonde, half asleep, contented, did not even object to the brunette's solicitation, her apology, and begging for forgiveness.

The brunette was then, in her view, no more than another pet. And she was not concerned at the moment, in her own contentment, with driving her away.

The male put his left hand on the brunette's forehead and, holding it in place, gently drew his right hand away.

The brunette looked up, timidly.

He smiled at her, and she put her head down, quickly, beside his leg. He then gently drew her hands apart that she, kneeling now beside him, need no longer prolong her pretense of modesty, so out of place in their tiny world, that she need no longer struggle so absurdly to hide her beauty from him.

She did not then grasp herself as before, in that preposterous fashion, trying to conceal herself from him, for he had seemed to discountenance it, but she did press herself against his leg, putting her head down, so that he could not see the full slave of her.

This amused him.

Did she not know that he could seize her, and hold her, and turn her, and examine her, minutely, and then, his assessment done, discard her, casting her to the side of the container as one might a slave?

But he recalled she was a free woman.

She looked up at him, timidly, tears in her eyes. And then put her head down and softly licked the side of his leg. She then put up her head again, timidly, to see his reaction.

It was the sort of thing a slave might do.

Would her solicitation be accepted, or might he be annoyed, and cuff her from his leg?

He put his hand gently on her hair, and then she felt, in a moment, his hand close within her hair, holding it, tightly.

She was helpless.

She winced.

He seemed to struggle with himself. He wants me, she thought, trying to hold her head very still, quite aware that if she made any sudden movement or made the least attempt to escape, it would hurt even more, and that he, if he wished, with a mere tightening or twist, could subject her to the torment of hundreds of tiny scalding knives of pain, to avoid which she would do anything. Then he released her hair. She was, after all, a free woman.

She crouched as she could in the container, against his leg.

She was startled, confused.

He could have done with her what he wanted, but he had not.

She put down her head.

She kissed his leg, again.

She had strange, unaccountable sensations.

This is what it is, she thought, to be a female.

Then she thought, I want him to claim me. I want to wear his collar. Lash me, she thought, prove to me you own me.

But he did not touch her.

She was free.

She grappled with her feelings. Had women felt this way, in a thousand years, she wondered, or two thousand, perhaps in Baghdad, Damascus or Byzantium, in Athens or Rome, in Thebes or Corinth, in Gaul or Britain, or in the German forests, or in Persia or Egypt, or in Nineveh or Babylon, or in the great muddy river valleys, or in horse-haunted grasslands, the dominion of bowmen, or in clustered huts where metal was new or in fire-illuminated caves where flint was patiently shaped?

What would it be, she wondered, to struggle in the thongs of a prehistoric lover.

Where have the gods gone, she asked herself.

We no longer hear them call to one another.

What has become of us? What have we done to the world?

She felt herself touched then, you see, however softly, by the fingers of a world alien to her, a natural world of meadows and moisture, of damp rocks and blades of moist grass, a world rather like her own might once have been, unspoiled, a world quite different from the world she had known, an artificial world, a sly world, one of lies and pretense, of hypocrisy, and artifices, of convention and deception.

Am I a slave, she asked herself. Is this my master?

She looked up at him, and he smiled.

He is reading my body, my expressions, she thought. He knows, he must know, what I am thinking!

So he reads women, does he? Well, he is mistaken in the case of such as I! Perhaps there are low women who would grovel and place a man's foot upon their head, but I am not one such! My knees do not seek the tiles! My tongue is not for the feet of masters! My limbs are not for the chains of owners, my throat is not for their collars!

I am not such, she thought. I am not such.

I am not a slave, she thought. No, no, I am not a slave, not a slave!

Then suddenly, angrily, she thrust away from him, and thrust herself back against the obdurate transparent barrier which so closely confined them.

He smiled at her, and she lunged forth to strike him but he grasped her wrists and he held her helplessly before him, her struggles as futile as might have been those of a child, until tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks.

He then released her.

She regarded him angrily.

I hate you, she thought. I hate you! Then she subsided, frightened, for he had frowned.

I have displeased him, she thought.

Why does he not discipline me? Because I am a free woman, of course. She shuddered, as he looked away. If I were a slave, she thought, he would punish me. Why does he not make me his slave?

But I fear that I am not worthy to be his slave!

But clearly he desires me!

I think he would not mind having me at his feet!

Then why might he not make me his slave?

Where is Earth? Where is my old world! Where is the world where I understand myself? What is this place, or world, where I cannot understand myself, but where I am other than I was, and am hopelessly, needfully so?

I must never understand myself as I truly am, she thought, for that is forbidden!

But why, she asked herself, is it forbidden?

Teach me who I am, she thought, teach me myself! Release me! Free me, to be myself, and yours—
Master
!